


Dealing with a Detective

by BrokenKestral



Series: Whumptober2020 [6]
Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Gen, Hallucinations, Mystery, Science, Solving, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:08:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27032425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenKestral/pseuds/BrokenKestral
Summary: A case-fic inspired by two Whumptober2020 prompts
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Whumptober2020 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1970584
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8





	1. Science Gone Wrong

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober Prompt 15: Into the Unknown  
> Science Gone Wrong - Sherlock Holmes
> 
> Disclaimer: I’ve not really written mysteries before, so I’m drawing quite heavily from both the original works and a few things from BBC’s Sherlock. Hopefully that makes it more enjoyable, rather than tedious! Also, it’s a two-day story.. 
> 
> Warning: [legal] drug use referenced, examination of a dead body with wounds.

On looking through my casefiles, I find that I have never published this story. That was likely on my dear friend’s account, as Sherlock Holmes has little taste for tales that read like dime-store novels. Yet all the of the account below is true, and might be of interest to the general public.

It started with a visit from Lestrade. I was out seeing a patient, but Sherlock Holmes recounted the whole to me, sitting with his feet drawn up in his arm-chair. “Watson!”

I set down my bag and climbed up the staircase, settling into my chair with a sigh. “How did you know I was home? I’d not even taken a step on the stairs!”

“By Mrs. Hudson’s door.”

“My dear Holmes!” 

“I smell the distinct scent of molasses, which means Mrs. Hudson is in the kitchen. She would take note of all callers from the kitchen window, and as she opened and closed her door far too quickly to do more than call a greeting, it meant it was a member of the household. A simple case. Lestrade has brought me a far more interesting one.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, a murder in an empty house. Do you know the Harrington Estate?”

I thought back to the names I’d heard recently. This one  _ was _ familiar. “The old mansion the newspaper said was the most haunted place in London?”

“Exactly. The superstitious mind, Watson, the superstitious mind! A large place, with empty rooms, moonlight and shadows, and a ghost story emerges!”

“But what’s that got to do with Lestrade’s case?” Sherlock smiled. “You don’t mean to say it happened at the Harrington Estate?”

“Even better. The man murdered was its new owner, his parents having recently deceased. He was found in the middle of a large empty room, with all the doors locked on the inside. There appears to be no signs of a struggle, no immediately visible bruises on the body, and an unknown cause of death. The victim was found curled in a ball, his head buried in his knees, as if he wished to hide from something but was unable to escape the room he had locked himself into.”

“It reads like a ghost story!”

“Yes, yes, of course it does! But it is likely man who set it so, not the spirits of the afterlife! Come, are you free to examine the body?” I stood up at once, only to have my friend glance at me. “Your war wound is aching again.” 

“Well, the weather is changing. But this will take my mind off of it.”

Holmes did not bother to ask me if I was sure; he was far too keen for the chase, and trusted me to know my limits. We caught a cab to the morgue, and the overworked doctor gladly let me take over his examination, once he’d confirmed we had proper permission from the Yard. Lestrade had left a note. 

So it was I pulled out the body of Matthew Harrington. He was young, in his early twenties, and I frowned as I noticed the lack of fat on the arms and the too-concaved stomach. With a saddened heart, I reached for his arm, and found the small pinpricks I’d almost expected to find. “Holmes, he was an addict.” Holmes, who had been examining the man’s belongings at another table, looked up. 

“That would explain the few medical instruments here. Did he die of an overdose?” I checked Matthew’s mouth, refraining from commenting on Holmes’ own drug use. “There is no smell of vomit or spit about his mouth, and nothing dried on his lips.” I checked his eyes. “Holmes!”

Holmes hurried over, and I silently held the eyelid open. Even my strong stomach turned, but Holmes bent over with his keen attention. “What caused that?”

“It looks like a blunt instrument penetrated both his eyes.” A whisper of unease stirred in me, that perhaps the ghost had not liked being seen, but I shook it off. 

“A most interesting reaction. Is there any drug you’ve encountered that could have such an effect?” 

“Not that I’ve heard of, no.”

“But it wasn’t the cause of death?” Holmes had brought his magnifying glass to bear on the victim’s nose, looking very closely at the inside of the nostrils.

“No, whatever punctured them didn’t go deep at all.” 

“Hmm, most fascinating. Lestrade has promised me a look at the crime scene once he overrides the lawyers quibbling about who it belongs to now. Till then, old chap, do you feel like lunch?”

Lunch came and went, and we retired to the sitting room. Lestrade found us in the afternoon, puffing his way up the staircase.

“I swear by Queen and country, Mr. Holmes, if I have to deal with one more lawyer who tells me the property is in a grey area and therefore there isn’t a proper owner to give consent to us searching the entirety of the grounds, I will retire and let Charleston take over the force. Any luck with the body?” 

“A few things, noting I know to be of note yet. Is the house ready?” 

“Yes, can you come now?” he asked as he handed a couple of papers to Holmes.

“We leave at once, Lestrade.” Holmes was already heading towards the door, and I followed more slowly. The ache from the wound had grown in the cold morgue, and would grow even greater in the cold outside—but I wouldn’t miss the case. I found Holmes waiting for me outside the door, having already hailed a cab, and one with a blanket at that. “No room for you, Lestrade, we’ll meet you there!” he called, climbing in after me. 

The ride to the Harrington Estate was quite long, and Holmes spent all of it with his fingers pressed together, his eyes shining. “Science against superstition, Watson. As soon as the papers discover the man died in an unknown way, in a locked room, the papers will be full of theories. But science may lay out the answers.”

“Was Matthew the last of his family?”

“Let me check my book. I brought it with me.” Holmes took out his index and turned it to “H,” scanning it down till he came to the Harringtons. “No criminal propensities, apparently. Yes, he was an only child, born to Lord and Lady Harrington.” He closed the book and pulled out the report Lestrade had handed him. “He was set to inherit the title, four properties, and almost no money. His parents died in a carriage accident when their horse spooked five months ago. I believe young Harrington wanted to sell all the properties but his childhood home, and make a living for himself that way.”

“He would not have lived very long.” Holmes raised an eyebrow at the frustration in my tone. 

“Moderation in all things, old chap. Judging by the number of marks in his arm, I deduce Matthew didn’t have any. Now his inheritance may go to an uncle on his mother’s side, so not exactly a blood relation for the name, the Crown, or a distant cousin so far removed the blood may not be able to be proven. Apparently both uncle and cousin are fighting the Crown tooth and nail for the properties. Both of them, and a representative for the Crown, had to be at the estate to give permission to do more than rope off the room where the body was found. Well, well, Watson, it appears Lestrade beat us. Shall we go and congratulate him?” 

Holmes descended but did not go forward, content to watch as Lestrade, with his usual bluster and authority, was telling off an old man who dressed like an absent-minded, wrinkled professor, a young man about Matthew’s age who returned Lestrade’s orders with a high voice and dramatic, indignant gestures, and a well-dressed, rather smarmy short man with a black mustache and eyeglasses. 

“The uncle, the cousin, and the Crown,” Holmes murmured. “I shall speak with them later. Shall we go?”

We went in, and a constable directed us up the staircase to a second-story room. It must have been a ballroom once, with an echoing floor, a stretch of wall curved outward for the musicians, windows from floor to ceiling on either side, two large fireplaces, and a high ceiling with several cobwebs. There were four doors, two leading to separate hallways on the far side, one by the musicians alcove, and a large, double door that Holmes and I entered in. “All of them were locked?” Holmes asked the constable, looking at the splintered wood on the double door.

“Every one of them, Mister Holmes. We got a call from the seller, when she found this room locked and Mr. Harrington missing. We broke it down and found him right there,” the constable finished, pointing to the middle of the room. Holmes got out his magnifying glass, and I watched him. He examined the floor where the body was found first, and then walked to each corner of the room, rubbing his fingers on the floor and the wall at one point, and then, finally, calling for a ladder. At that point I walked to the wall and leaned against it, just behind where the door would open. I was more tired than I thought. Holmes ascended to examine the ceiling, brushing cobwebs out of his way, and then descended again, coughing a bit. He went from there to the fireplace, and I leaned harder against the wall, trying to distract myself by looking about.

“Are you finished up, Mr. Holmes?” Lestrade asked, walking into the rooms.

“Very nearly. I should like to speak to the possible owners; separately, if possible.”

“You can do anything you like, if you help us sort this out. I can’t make heads or tails of it. It ain’t a natural death, Mr Holmes, and that means murder or ghosts, but I’ll be blamed if I know how to find out which.”

“That is what I am for, Lestrade. Now, if you please, the owners.”

We stepped into a small room on the same floor, and the constable brought the representative for the Crown first. He spoke only of the Crown’s right to the property in event of a lack of heir, and how it was quite clear there wasn’t any. Holmes did not speak with him long, and I was grateful.

The uncle came next. “You are a man of science, I see,” Holmes asked, smiling. The old, crumpled man looked at him in confusion, and Holmes smiled. “Your fingers still have powder from various substances, you stoop as if you’re accustomed to bending over for hours at a time, and if you’ll allow me the liberty,” and he picked up the man’s arm and turned his palm over, “these types of stains only come from dealing with chemicals. I have some myself.”

“I sell medicines over on Palm Street,” the man said in a quiet, deep voice, surprising in such a stooped man. “I knew Matthew well. He was going to let me use one of the properties as a laboratory, before he found out the funds were gone.”

“Were you aware of his drug use?” 

The uncle sighed deeply. “I do hate it when science goes wrong. He learned to love medicines and chemicals as a boy, working in my lab, and I’m afraid that led him to try things when he was older that he shouldn’t have tried. It was such a shame, that. He was a bright boy, and would have done well.”

“How long was he using?”

“He started soon after his parents died. They took care of him till then, for he had a bright mind but no common sense, you see. No practicality.”

“Not a very good scientist then,” Holmes pointed out, though in a kinder tone than I expected. The uncle shook his head.

“No, perhaps he wouldn’t have been.”

“And the properties?”

“By rights I should have them; he meant me to have them, before the money ran out. I’d be happy just with one.”

“I’m sure, I’m sure. My condolences on your loss.” And Holmes bowed him out. 

The cousin came in next. He looked partly foreign, and acted it as well, speaking and moving with the quick passion of some of our neighboring nations. “Have you found out what happened to Matthew?”

“I’m afraid that will take some time. We need to examine all the evidence, you know.”

“But you must find out! They say he died from fear, terror, and if he had-”

“If he had?” Holmes asked, watching the man sharply.

“Then perhaps the legend of this place is true,” the man whispered. “Perhaps it is haunted. Matthew hoped it was so. He said he wanted to see if the world held things science could not answer.”

“He told you this?”

“But of course! We were brothers in spirit, orphans now, and seeking answers! I came at his mother’s request, two years ago, but he was happy, and wanted nothing of me, till his parents died. But he knew I had been lonely. We became friends. He met my wife. The three of us were family. We saw him falling into that escapism, that foolishness, and we meant to bring him out!”

“Then you knew of his habits.”

“A little. He knew I disapproved. He would not tell me, so long, how he got it. But we were working. My wife birthed our child, three months after he learned of being alone, and he became an uncle. For her, for my little girl, he was breaking away! Oh, you must find out what stopped him! You must find out what took my brother!”

“I shall endeavour to do so,” Holmes responded firmly, and I gently guided the pacing man to sit on the couch. “But you must think for now. Do you know why Matthew was here?”

“No, no. He stays with us. That way we watch him, make sure he does not escape into the needle in the arm.”

“Would he have been looking for the ghosts?”

“But no! We were meant to hunt together, the two of us, and he promised he would wait. I do not know why he was here. He did not like the house, old and dusty and ugly. He would not come alone.”

“You are certain of that? That he did not come alone, and that he did not like it because it was old, dusty, and ugly?” Holmes asked sharply, and the man nodded eagerly. 

“He did not like it,” the cousin repeated. 

“Thank you, you have been most helpful.” Holmes again showed our guest to the door, and glanced at me. “Come, we will go home. I must research, and you should get warm.” 

“If you’re sure, Holmes.”

“I have seen all I needed to see here.” We went back outside, saying farewell to Lestrade, and got into the hansom. 

“What do you make of it, Holmes?” 

“Well, parts of it are quite clear. But you know my methods, Watson. What did you observe?”

“I noticed that the ballroom was quite clean, though the rest of the house wasn’t.”

“Yes, one would say extremely clean. Well done. What do you make of it?”

“It wasn’t done by a ghost.” Holmes laughed.

“That’s my practical Watson! You’re quite right, a ghost would not care for such cleanliness, at least not by all accounts that circulate. I have the who, Watson, I am sure of it. And maybe the how. But I must get home in order to test it. Will a few scientific experiments bother you tonight?”

“Of course not, not if they’ll help. I’m tired enough I could sleep through almost anything. But who do you think did it?” 

Holmes smiled, saying nothing, and sank back against the chair. He refused to answer any other questions the rest of the ride home. 

**A/N: Any guesses on who did it and how?**


	2. Hallucinations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whumptober Prompt 16: A Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day  
> Hallucinations - Sherlock Holmes
> 
> Warning: drug use referenced, possibly disturbing images, I don't know what my imagination will come up with. This is hard, y'all. Take a moment when you're done, if you would, and let me know if the horror worked, or fell flat? Please?

Mrs. Hudson had dinner waiting for us when we reached the flat. Holmes did not eat on a case, but I ate with relish, watching with interest as he carefully took off his coat and set it on his chair near the fire. He did not usually take such good care of his belongings. He got his vials and chemicals out, which was not surprising, though I hoped for a dinner with no noxious fumes. Then, to my utter astonishment, Holmes went over and began collecting the cobwebs off of his coat. Finished, he took them over to his vials, and began mixing them in with other things. Knowing he would be so absorbed he wouldn't hear my questions, I went over to his coat to examine it myself. He'd left some cobwebs on it, and I caught them on my fingers, lifting them over the fireplace to see them better in the light of the flames. To my astonishment the middle of them, though held far above the fire, began to melt.

"Watson, put that down!" came Holmes' sharp voice, and I turned.

"I was just looking, Holmes," I objected, though I replaced the cobwebs onto his jacket.

"Don't bother with my things, not right now." His tone was already regaining the absent-mindedness his chemical experiments induced, and I shrugged. I was rather surprised I'd drawn him out of it to begin with. I sat down in my own chair, put my feet towards the blaze, and enjoyed the way the warm relaxed all of the aches. Before long I began dozing.

I must have been dozing, for the fire began taking strange shapes. A dancing shape, a human shape, no bigger than my finger. It was laughing at me, and I wished to draw Holmes attention to it. "Holmes?" He did not answer. I looked back at the fire. Surely I was sleeping, for the figure became more distinct, with two furry, goated legs, and a devilish smile under two small horns. I was deluded. I wondered what Holmes would make of it, what he would say science said. I got up abruptly, catching up the poker to wave it through the dancing half-goat to see if it would disappear.

But the poker came alive in my hand, a twisting, writhing length of black with words beginning to glow on it like the embers of a fire. _You lost them._ I dropped the poker in horror, backing away from it, hitting something with my knees. I turned, and the chair behind me had a body in it, a body in uniform, my aide in the war, shot through the arm, it wasn't fatal, it wouldn't be, it _wouldn't_ , I just had to get to him in time! I reached for him, but my hands betrayed me, turning palms up, facing me, the fingers beginning to wither, all but the thumbs—the thumbs grew. They grew larger than my palms, blunt, bloated things, beginning to bend my palms with their weight. I stared at them in horror. How would I save anyone with hands like these? I looked back at Tommy, the boy-turned-soldier, and saw—no. No, I hadn't been too late! But I was now, his eyes—the eyes of the dead. The empty eyes that never moved, never looked away, never gave the living peace! I couldn't even close them, not with my hands. I backed away. How was I a doctor now? I lost him! I was lost too, for I could feel the heat of the desert on my feet, and I could hear the noise. God of mercy, the noise. People yelling my name, yelling for a doctor, a doctor with no hands, a doctor who lost them.

Where was Holmes? I looked towards the table. But no, this was the desert? But the table was there, in the middle of the sand, the four legs beginning to sink! Holmes! I lunged forward. Something pulled me backwards, away from him! Something was around my chest, pulling tight, the noise growing louder. Be quiet! I have to save him! But the thin band around my chest was metal, spikes beginning to grow outwards, going down my arms. My hands were gone, they had fallen off! There they were on the floor! The metal band grew in their place, new hands, metal hands, hard hands. Could I be a doctor? Holmes!

But the metal was pushing me down, making me sit. It held my wrists, forced me to sit and watch. Tommy was sinking. His eyes, why didn't they close his eyes before burying him? And Matthew Harrington was there with him, but they'd opened his eyes—the bloodshot, punctured eyes. He had seen too much. Bury him, bury him! Cover those eyes that cannot see, but stare into me!

The walls! The walls were changing! They were falling outward into the desert, all but one, it was coming closer. It had feet, thirteen feet, hopping under the wall, bringing it closer! It meant to crush me! Where was Holmes?

Something pricked my arm. A needle-like snake! Green against the sand, with bullets falling out of its mouth, it grew larger, larger, the bullets spent, all the bullets the desert ate up in our wars, dumping around me! They would bury me, bury me with my eyes open! Holmes!

No, I could close my eyes. They were heavy. The bullets were attaching to them, weighing them down, pulling them closed. The dead should be buried with their eyes closed…

* * *

I must be dozing, for the fire began taking a strange shape. It appeared to

"Watson? Watson! Wake up, Watson!" I stirred. I did not want to open my eyes. I knew I didn't. There was a reason.

What I had seen-

But I was not a coward. I refused to be a coward, and I opened them.

Holmes was bent over me, a needle in one hand, his other raised to slap my face. We were in the study, the walls standing immovably in place. But my shoes were flung near the door.

"Holmes?" I blinked, looking up at him, and the raised hand lowered slowly. "What happened?"

"Are you all right, my dear friend?"

"I don't know. Holmes, what _was_ that?"

"Now this is very important, Watson. Where have you been today?"

I did not understand why the question would be important, but Holmes's mind moved faster than mine did. "I went to Mrs. Babbit-"

"No, Watson, after! This afternoon!"

"Just the places with you," I returned, still a bit muzzy. "Holmes, did I have a nightmare?" What I had seen had been too vivid, too real for a nightmare, but I could think of no other explanation. Holmes got to his feet, placing his hand on my shoulder when I would have risen too. He kept me in place, then, satisfied I would not move, began to pace.

"The cobwebs contain residuals of a hallucinogenic, Watson. Effective when burned, and both fireplaces in the hall had been lit. It's harmless in small portions, used sometimes for recreational effect, if enormously expensive."

I thought to Matthew Harrington's eyes punctured, of the walls moving in—of what he might have seen, and shuddered. "You think he tried it, and took too much?"

Holmes walked to his violin, picking it up and then setting it down. I blinked again. It was rare to see him turn away from his help, unless he was truly bothered. He turned back to me and examined me. "I would consider it possible, Watson, but for one thing. You had some of the powder on the bottom of your shoes."

My shoes? I had propped my feet up near the fire when we returned. "But I did not go near the fireplace."

"So where were you? We must hypothesise that you picked it up at the house; it is too rare a powder to be found commonly in London, and most of what does exist has been confiscated and is being held with other valuables by the authorities. In the house, Watson, in the house? Where were you in the house?"

I thought back. "I went up the stairs with you, and waited while you examined everything—and I was tired, and went back and leaned against the wall."

"Behind the door!" Holmes exclaimed. "Of course, but that would mean—I wonder—Watson, old chap, I'll send Mrs. Hudson up with something for you, but I must be off at once! You'll be alright?" I nodded—I could feel the hallucinogen's effects fading, but he still hesitated.

"Go on, Holmes."

He paused, still uncertain, then went to the mantle and poured me a glass of brandy, making sure I lifted it for a drink before heading down the stairs full speed, calling Mrs. Hudson as he went.

He was gone all afternoon. When he came back he seemed most satisfied. "I have looked into all three owners, Watson, and I am confident I know both the who, and the how. We are up against a clever opponent! But how are you faring, old fellow?"

I had experienced a calm, tedious afternoon, and was fully recovered. "Mrs. Hudson has fed me more soup than a dinner at a soup kitchen," I grumbled, and Holmes laughed, the laugh that preluded excitement and a chase.

"I left you in excellent hands! But you are ready for an adventure? Your nerves are recovered?"

"I am ready if you are."

"Wonderful! But we must wait. I have an idea, Watson, an idea, but we must wait till it is dark to fully reveal it." He threw himself into his own chair across from me.

"What have you been doing?"

"Looking into the three who might profit from Matthew Harrington's death. I soon satisfied myself as to the cousin's story—a beggar who found his weeping wife and played with the small child." Holmes shuddered. "I spent an hour listening to her cry. The neighbors confirmed Matthew lived with the family, and quite amiably, except for when he indulged in his drug use. The neighbors could hear the family quite clearly on those days, or at least the cousin and his wife. Those days he proved a most unfortunate houseguest, and then a most unfortunate neighbor, as he took to indulging outside, so his hosts wouldn't find him. The uncle, however, also stood to lose a great deal if Matthew sold the properties. He had claimed that particular house for a new laboratory, and Matthew had already given him a key. He is still most upset his claim is being challenged, at least to this particular house. And the solicitor stood to gain a promotion if he could get the properties added to the valuables already owned by the crown."

"I am for the uncle," I said, thinking it over. "It might be easy enough to mix the powder if he had the ingredients, and it would be easy enough to trick his nephew there, and to lock up after he was done."

"Do you think so? Well, we shall find out if you are right. Tonight, Watson, tonight!"

Holmes then called up for a hearty dinner, though he forbore eating any. After dinner we waited till the sun set, I took my revolver, and the two of us set off in a hansom cab, though we let it go two streets over, there meeting Lestrade and a few of his constables. All of us walked quietly to the house at Holmes' instruction, where Holmes let himself in with a key, his eyes gleaming in the moonlight. He led us up to the empty room the young man had died in, the moonlight pouring through the windows, and motioned us to sink into the musicians' alcove, hiding in the shadows near the floor. Lestrade, long accustomed to Holmes' theatrics, motioned his men to obey.

Before long we heard faint footsteps in the hall behind us. They stopped just short of entering, but Holmes did not move when I glanced at him.

I gripped my revolver. Holmes did notice that and shook his head, and I sank back into a more relaxed crouch again.

Ten more minutes passed. Then again came the sound of footsteps, this time from the main hall, two pairs of feet climbing up the stairs.

"I don't know why I had to come," the deep voice of the uncle protested.

"Because it's your key and your laboratory, which _you_ cleaned, and if they're settling the entailment tonight, especially if it reverts to the Crown as it _should_ , they'll need a record of everything you've do—where is everyone?"

"There's no one here," the uncle said uneasily.

"I am here," breathed a ghostly whisper from behind us, and the Constables tensed. Holmes quickly shoved his hands over the mouths of two, jerking his head at me to cover the other. Both the uncle and the solicitor turned abruptly, looking for the source of the sound, and one of the doors swung slowly open with a prolonged creak.

"Who is there?" the solicitor asked sharply.

"Matthew Harrington," came the whisper again. "I come to avenge my murder." From the hall something white streamed into the room. It did not use steps as mortal men did, and I breathed hard in fear. But my fear was nothing compared to the fear of the two men.

"I didn't know, Matthew, I didn't know!" the uncle cried. "He said he wanted to borrow the key for an experiment, and if I told, I'd be accused of murder! I didn't know what he planned to do!"

"Silence!" roared the solicitor. "You—you cannot be real! There are no ghosts! You—you do not exist!"

"But I do," the ghost moaned. "I cannot rest, you killed me!"

Both men were backing away as the ghost floated forward, more slowly now.

"But you were useless on earth, you cannot be here! I killed you! I rid the earth of you! Don't come closer! I'll do it again!" and the solicitor plunged his hand deep into his pockets.

"And that, gentlemen, is what we needed to hear," Holmes said in a normal voice, standing up. "Constables, if you would?"

All three beings turned towards us, and the "ghost" reached a hand to his head, grabbing a portion of it and pulling. A filmy white fabric flowed up and off, dancing in the moonlit air, and revealed Matthew's cousin, standing on a wheeled contraption laid close to the ground.

The other two stared in disbelief. "What is this?" the solicitor asked, anger growing with every word.

"This is an arrest, sir, for the murder of Matthew Harrington. I suppose as a solicitor you don't need your rights read, eh?" Two of the constables went and grabbed him, the third restraining the uncle, who had begun sobbing. "Now tell me, Mr. Holmes, how did you know it was him?"

"Simple deduction, Lestrade; Watson and I found the drug and the good doctor was unfortunate enough to experience its effects, and it was found in a quantity far too large. Now whoever had put it there had neglected to clean behind the door—you'll find more residue there, if you wish for evidence—and that immediately pointed suspicion away from the uncle, who was far too methodical a scientist to miss such an obvious thing. And shame on you, sir, for giving in so easily to fear! You, a man of science! And then I found our representative for the Crown, here, had access to where the drug was stored along with other various samples, and a known dislike of drug users. I have no doubt he was supplying Matthew Harrington with drugs for some time, and lured him here with a promise of a new drug away from the house of his friends, and inside, where it would be warmer. Did I miss anything, counsellor?"

"Curse you," he snarled. "I rid the earth of trash to enrich the ones who care for it. That shouldn't be a crime."

"Matthew was not trash, he was brother," said a familiar, accented voice, and a moment later the cousin punched the solicitor in the face.

"Now, now, we don't hold to that! No punching the prisoner," Lestrade intervened, but I noticed he did so only after the cousin had given at least one good right hook. "Well, that's all the confession we need, then. And you, you're facing charges as an accessory, since you didn't come forward with what you knew!" he added to the uncle. "Now let's get you all off where you belong, and we'll sort out all the charges down at the station. Come along then!"

Holmes watched them depart with a smile. I couldn't help but interrupt, for his dramatic methods proved a good way to tease the scientifically minded man.

"A ghost, Holmes?"

He waved carelessly as we descended the staircase. "It fit with the legend of the house, though I confess I did not expect the uncle to fall for it, instead of the solicitor. It's sad, Watson, when a scientific mind loses itself to fear. That, truly, is science gone wrong."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Yes, I am aware of this irony considering Arthur Conan Doyle's passion at the end of his life.


End file.
